Solo, Hope Solo [best non fiction books of all time .txt] 📗

had ached, how he had hobbled in the woods on two canes with a smile despite the crippling blows he’d taken. Always with a word of love for my siblings and me. He was a fighter.

I stood up and got out of the tub. As I turned to leave the bathroom I saw Second Corinthians 4:9 on my back in the mirror.

Persecuted but not forsaken. Cast down but not destroyed.

II.

My phone kept ringing. All day, every day. Finally I answered it. It was my agent, Rich. He wanted me to join a conference call with the U.S. Soccer bosses, Sunil Gulati and Dan Flynn. And Greg Ryan.

The team had a “celebration tour” beginning on October 13 in St. Louis—just days away. It was supposed to be a victory tour, but we hadn’t won anything. Still, there were three games scheduled against Mexico in three different cities. “Rich, I don’t want to get on the call. I don’t want to go on this fucking tour,” I said. “I don’t have the strength or energy. I don’t want to go through all of this again.”

Rich calmly said that was fine. He said he’d support me, no matter what I decided. But he also told me I should get on the call and tell Sunil and Dan. This was about my career.

I was beginning to understand that what happened at the World Cup had been huge news on sports networks and talk radio, unheard of for women’s soccer, especially during football season. I was learning that many thought Greg’s crazy decision and the team’s behavior were far worse than my outburst. The ostracizing of Hope Solo was discussed nationwide, on TV sports shows and late night comedy shows. It was apparent that damage control was needed.

The Monday before the tour was scheduled to start, I sat on my couch with the phone against my ear, on a conference call with Sunil and Dan and Greg. Greg talked about how important it was for me to show real contrition. He pointed out that Marion Jones had just—that day—given back her Olympic medals out of shame for doping. He suggested that I give back my tour money and my bronze medal if I wanted to show true remorse. He said that I wouldn’t be on the national team without him, that he had given me my opportunity.

“Greg, I’ve been in this program since 1999,” I said. “I’ve been the starting goalkeeper on every age-level team for this country. You are not the one who opened doors for me. I’ve been with the national team longer than you’ve been here, and I’ll remain on it longer than you do. I don’t owe my starting spot to you: I earned it.”

I felt the fire reignite inside of me. I wasn’t going to let Greg Ryan control my career.

I wanted to be on the tour. “I’m going to be part of the celebration,” I added. “Contractually it’s my right to be there.”

Greg told me that the team didn’t want me there.

“Well, it’s not up to the team anymore,” I said. “I’m going to be there. I’m going to put myself through hell by being there, but I need to start this process.”

I looked at a picture of Grandma Alice and Grandpa Pete on my refrigerator. “Refuse to remain offended,” Grandma had once told me, quoting Galatians. “We shall reap if we do not lose heart.”

“The sooner we get started, the sooner we can start healing,” I said. Greg paused. He said he needed to discuss how to handle me with the team and then got off. Sunil and Dan remained on the line. Dan praised me for expressing myself clearly and being respectful. He told me to hang in there.

But truly, I still felt like giving up. Quitting the sport to which I had devoted my life. I couldn’t imagine putting on the U.S. uniform and feeling proud, training alongside those women.

The tour began in a few days. A sympathetic teammate called me. She had been on a conference call with the team and the players’ lawyer. “Hope, they’re trying to take your money away,” she said. “The don’t want to pay you for the tour.”

Carli’s trainer, James Galanis, called me. I didn’t know him well, but I saw that he had shaped her into a fighter. I respected him. And I knew I needed help. So I listened. “Get in the car, Hope,” he said. “Drive to the field.”

It was that basic. I needed someone to tell me what to do, how to restart my life, bring me back.

I started to pack for St. Louis.

III.

I flew to St. Louis on Thursday, October 12, two days before the game with Mexico. I flew through Chicago, where I sat at my gate, waiting for my connecting flight, filled with dread.

“Are you Hope Solo?”

I looked up and saw a man with a neatly trimmed goatee looking down at me. I nodded. “I’m Jeff Cooper,” he said. “I’m the owner of the St. Louis WPS team.”

I knew that the Women’s Professional Soccer league was scheduled to start in the spring of 2009, a few months after the Beijing Olympics. Jeff was excited and full of energy and big ideas. He was also sympathetic about my situation. “Stand up for yourself, Hope,” he told me as we boarded our flight. “Let me know if I can do anything for you.”

The “Celebration Tour” roster had already been released, and my name was on it. Rich assured me that he had spoken several times with Dan Flynn, and there was a clear understanding of what would happen. We were going to move forward, put the World Cup behind us, point toward the 2008 Olympics. Dan—who lived in St. Louis—had canceled a trip to Switzerland to watch the men’s national team play in order to stick close to home and monitor what happened with me.

By the time I reached the team hotel, it was late on Thursday night. I touched base with our